


The Fall

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Romance, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: After averting the apocalypse and finally acting on the feelings they've repressed for six thousand years, Aziraphale and Crowley are together at last. But there are parts of their past they still need to talk about, especially when the angel wants to know more about the demon’s Fall from Heaven.





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This one can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to (also NSFW) [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266760).  
> Chinese translation by spiralamadeus can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738312)!

Aziraphale is happily sorting through some new additions to his bookstore when he feels a presence behind him.

Crowley’s lips are warm against the shell of his ear. “You busy?” His mouth trails down the angel’s neck, and, well— the bookstore unexpectedly closes down for a couple of hours after that.

* * *

It’s the weirdest feeling. For the first time ever, they are free. The apocalypse has been called off, and they don’t have to hide anymore. They have so much free time on their hands, all of a sudden. It’s true, neither of them would have exactly made _Employee of the Century_ , but pretending to do the work they had been assigned to do still required some work: there were reports to write, excuse to think up, lies to plan ahead.

Now? They have all the time in the world. And they do need that time, all of it, to explore this relationship of theirs, both brand-new and as old as time.

Neither of them has been able to concentrate fully on anything else. Crowley’s car has barely dodged way too many people this last week. He’s starting to think that maybe he really should slow down. He’s been restless, often stalking after Aziraphale while the angel is busy doing something else.

The demon has probably never been as good at the task of tempting as he is right now. Now that he’s _motivated_ , he’s actually making an effort. He can list all of the reasons why taking care of old books is a completely _deferrable_ job, point out convincingly that there are _better_ ways to spend one’s time (namely, in bed with him), argue that it’s _such_ a beautiful day, what a waste to spend it holed up in the bookstore.

Whatever resistance Aziraphale puts up is purely nominal. He lets himself be tempted over and over again. Sometimes it’s dinner and a movie, sometimes it’s a walk in the park and an ice cream. Sometimes it’s take-out and TV, and sometimes the demon spends the night coaxing the most profane sounds out of him.

The bookstore’s sales would have suffered, had there been any to begin with. The owner’s attention is currently elsewhere. He’s put a television in the backroom just for Crowley to have something to do while he helps customers. Crowley’s favourite coffee blend can be found upstairs, in the angel’s small kitchen. A few new houseplants have appeared in the store. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale does not terrorize them – but he makes sure to tell them he will be extremely disappointed and sad if they got spots or dry leaves. Crowley is a bit mad the angel’s plants are actually better looking than his own are.

Aziraphale always has a smile for his demon, or a quick kiss on the corner of his lips if he has to go out on an errand. He’s been getting him brand-new CDs every so often – never mind that he has no idea what he’s buying, he just asks the clerk for “good music” and trusts them that they chose well. Crowley appreciates the thought anyway, even as he’s handed the first album of some obscure Norwegian heavy metal rock band or the best of a pop boy band that was very popular among teenage girls back in the 90s.

Crowley likes to sleep, and Aziraphale loves to eat, so they’ve been doing both together. Sure, sometimes Aziraphale stays up reading while the demon sleeps, and more often than not Crowley just orders a cup of tea while the angel eats, but their new daily routine is not too far off from any normal human couple. One side of Crowley’s bed now smells like Aziraphale’s cologne, which is something the demon finds weird, new, and amazing.

This life is good.

* * *

It’s Aziraphale that brings it up.

They’re on the couch, and he’s going through a very old looking edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy as Crowley lays with his head against the angel’s leg, tapping away on his phone.

“He was not too far off concerning the structure of Hell, was he?”

“Hmm?” Crowley’s eyes focus on the title of the book. “Oh. Oh that one. Right…”

“What do you mean ‘ _right_ ’?” Aziraphale gasps. “Y-you had a hand in this?!”

“Heh, well… a little bit here and there.”

“Crowley, the description of Satan is almost _spot-on_.”

“Yes, maybe.” He gives him a sly smile. “What can I say; I’m a patron to the arts.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles back. “You truly are unrepentant.”

“Oh brother, pray for my lost soul.”

“Don’t say that.”

Crowley shrugs and settles back down, but Aziraphale is a bit upset. He knows it in his heart that Crowley is no ‘lost soul’. He’s met plenty of angels that were horrible people, and his demon is so much better than they are. He’s generous, kind in every significant way, and, weirdly enough, his moral compass might be straighter than Aziraphale’s sometimes. Sure, all these good qualities are wrapped in a rough, sarcastic, melodramatic shell. But they’re there all the same.

Aziraphale closes the book, and spends a few quiet minutes combing his fingers through the demon’s hair. When he decides to speak, he carefully chooses each word.

“I don’t think we’ve ever talked about it openly.”

“’bout what?”

“Would you consider telling me— how it happened? How you ended up on the… other side?”

A few seconds of silence go by, and then the demon shuts the phone’s display off. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, what did… why? Why did it happen?”

“I told you, I asked too many questions.” Crowley pulls himself up in a sitting position. “You must remember how it was in those days.”

Of course, Aziraphale remembers. Before the earth was created, twenty million angels existed peacefully, executing God’s will. Then the war, which was hard on every single one of them. “Of course, I do.”

“When that whole affair was over, everyone was quite— paranoid, weren’t they?” Crowley leans back, one arm over the back of the couch. “Nobody appreciated the fact that I kept asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, I just… I don’t think it made any sense, what God did. Think about it. If you’re supposed to be an all-encompassing, omniscient, preternatural being, then you already knew there was going to be a war, hmm? So why let it happen? And how can you literally _create_ someone, know perfectly well all their flaws, and then act surprised when they behave exactly as expected? That’s utter bollocks.”

Even though they’re safe now, Aziraphale has to repress the strongest urge to cover the demon’s mouth with his hands. Nobody should _think_ things like that, much less say them out loud. “I see.”

“Let’s just say I _voiced my concerns._ ” Crowley spells out those three words in a hiss. “One moment, I was building galaxies in Her honour, the next I was eating dust on the road to Hell.”

“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale says, touching the demon’s hand.

“Don’t be. This isn’t so bad. You get used to it.” However, as he says so, he turns his hand to hold the angel’s, palm against palm, fingers intertwined like a prayer. “After a while, I didn’t even miss it anymore. Besides, there’s a lot less rules. Less of a headache, really. I can ask all my questions, and— nobody will answer, but nobody will give me the boot either. It takes about a century or so, but even the wings grow back.”

“How do you mean?”

Crowley considers him for a moment, then leans his head back, looking at the ceiling. “Do you know what happens to a fallen angel?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I never saw it with my own eyes, I only heard rumors.”

 _“The traitor’s hands shall be tied behind their back, and they shall walk among their siblings with their head bent.”_ Eyes closed, Crowley recites this by heart, as if reading from an invisible book that’s right in front of him. _“They shall be stripped of their titles; they shall not remember their own name. They shall fold at the knees and their wings shall be ripped from their backs.”_

Aziraphale makes a sharp sound at that, horrified, both hands over his mouth.

_“For new wings they shall have, black as a night without stars. Their white wings shall be brought back to Heaven, for their siblings shall see what happens when an angel disappoints God’s perfect love.”_

When he’s done, Crowley glances at Aziraphale. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I still remember the whole thing, too.”

The angel is speechless for a few, long seconds.

“Crowley, I— I had no idea, if— if I had known…” His nails sink into his palms just to have something to hold on to – otherwise he might be tempted to hug his demon and never let him go, to run his hands all over his back where his white wings once were, kiss the skin that wasn’t broken, so long ago, only because they had no physical form. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because he knows – Crowley doesn’t want and doesn’t need to be pitied. “Why, why did you never tell me?”

Against his better judgement, Crowley does what he always does for his angel – comes apart at the seams in a moment of unsettling honesty. His voice is the softest it’s ever been as he replies. “What if I told you and you still stood on their side? I couldn’t, I…”

That stings. It stings so badly because Aziraphale is actually _not sure_ whether having that knowledge would have made him forsake Heaven right away. He’s spent so much time in fear. It’s second nature to justify every horrible action, every contradiction, all the hypocrisy.

He stands up just to go down on one knee in front of the demon, forcing Crowley to look him in the eyes.

There’s so much he wants to say as they look at each other, Crowley barely keeping it together and Aziraphale with his misty eyes. He can never repair what has been done to the demon— not ever. He can’t even apologize on behalf of his side, since he isn’t one of them anymore. He just knows he’s sorry, and that Crowley did not deserve what was done to him. He understands, now, why the demon doesn’t want to hear he’s a good person – if he really is, that only makes the way he was cast out of Heaven more brutal.

No words are forthcoming. They’re literally surrounded by volumes upon volumes of words, and Aziraphale has read all of them, but, in this particular moment, there are none. He’s choked up, and it’s better for everyone if he doesn’t try to speak.

When he can’t hold Crowley’s gaze anymore, he bows his head, silently asking for forgiveness. Now more than ever he wishes the demon were still an angel, so that he could feel the love radiating off of him.

Crowley swallows hard, jaw clenched. Then, he reaches out to lay a hand on the angel’s head, letting it slide down to his cheek. Soon enough he’s tugging Aziraphale to him, takes his face in both hands as he kisses him, and all is forgiven.

* * *

At some point during the night, Crowley nods off, head against his angel’s.

He’s jerked awake when Aziraphale shoots up, striding fast towards one of the shelves in the library.

“Angel, what the—”

“It was here, somewhere, hold on— ah, there it is!” In his hands, he holds one of the many books of prophecies he owns. “Went through quite a lot of trouble to get this one, it was deemed both too obscure and too blasphemous to be sold.”

Crowley looks at him interrogatively as the angel sits back next to him, the huge black book in his lap.

“The Celestial Prophecies of Catherine Nutter.”

“ _Nutter_? Like—?”

“Yes, yes. A great-aunt to our dear Agnes. Now, I might be completely wrong about this, but I could be right.” He flips through the pages, not quite carefully enough, considering it’s a very old, frail book. When he finds what he’s looking for, he cracks the spine in a way that has Crowley worried his lover might have gone mad. “Here, this one!”

_Before the beginning, it was decided._

_The sky shall lose its fastest star to the earth,_

_Question and Virtue shall cross paths,_

_And they shall know one another,_

_Because the star shall save the earth,_

_When sky and fire are one._

“Nice limerick.” Comments Crowley, who still has no idea what Aziraphale is going on about.

“Crowley, listen— when we met, how did you know my name? How did you know I had a flaming sword?”

“I—” Crowley opens his mouth to continue, but realizes he has no idea. “How did I know?”

“Because every angel knows name, titles and main characteristics of all the other angels. That’s how it works. There are ten million of us— there were double that amount, at the beginning. We have to know one another someway.” And then he adds, carefully, “But when we met, your name had changed, so I had to ask you what it was now.”

“You know my old name?” Crowley’s yellow eyes open impossibly wide, then he pulls back. “ _No_. I don’t want to know. Don’t you dare—”

“I won’t.” Aziraphale puts his hands up between them. “I won’t. I promise.”

Crowley rubs a spot between his eyebrows. “I’m going to go to sleep for ten years after tonight.” He looks back at Aziraphale. “So what? Where were you going with this?”

“Can I… do I have permission to tell you some things about your old self?”

Crowley considers this for a long moment before nodding.

“You were powerful. Much more so than me, easily. You were known to be luminous. And you were known to be swift. The swiftest wings in Heaven.” The demon takes the information as one might take a punch to the gut. Aziraphale sees this. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m getting somewhere.”

“Go on then.”

“So the first line— _before the beginning, it was decided._ The only thing that could have existed before the beginning, the only entity that could have made a decision— it must be referring to God herself. So God decides – in her Ineffable Plan – that _the sky shall lose its fastest star to the earth_. That’s you, Crowley, it has to be you.”

Despite himself, Crowley feels a tug at his heart he hasn’t felt in a very, very, very long time. _Hope_.

“Now—” Aziraphale keeps going, “I’m not clear on this part about Question and Virtue meeting and knowing one other, but—”

“You’re Virtue.” Crowley cuts him off. “You have every virtue an angel should have.”

Aziraphale thinks it over; more than a little touched his demon would say that about him. “And you’re Question.”

“I did get myself kicked out of Heaven for questioning, didn’t I?”

Also, as they realize at the same time, they do know each other in every sense of the world. Biblically. Personally. Intimately. They know each other maybe more than any other couple of entities to ever exist.

“ _When sky and fire are one_. This has to be about the fact that Heaven and Hell seem to be aligning as allies. So, that would mean…”

Crowley fixes his gaze on the second-to-last line. “ _Because the star shall save the earth_.”

Aziraphale looks at his demon staring at the page. That is, until said demon stands up abruptly.

“Need to clear my head.” And with that, he’s out the door. Aziraphale hears the squealing of the Bentley’s tires against the street and prays to God that She’ll give Crowley back to him in one piece.

* * *

It’s almost a full revolution of the earth around itself before the demon comes back. Aziraphale has been worried sick, and he has the brightest smile for Crowley when he sees him again.

“Hello Crowley, how—”

“You know what, Aziraphale? I was doing just fine. I was doing just plain _dandy_.” The demon circles him, his ridiculous stride even more exaggerated now. “But you had to go and pull out your old crazy books, make up theories to make me feel better.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Here’s the thing though, angel: I do not feel better. I don’t like feeling like some sort of pawn in the Almighty’s ineffable blasted plan. I don’t care what’s in store for me. I was thrown away like trash. I had my own name taken away from me. I was—”

Crowley’s shouts are interrupted by the book of prophecies bursting into flames. The supernatural fire is limited to just that one book. In a few seconds, it’s nothing but dust. It’s only when Crowley looks at Aziraphale, and sees the firm look on his face, that he realizes the angel has just destroyed one of his most precious books. For him.

“Angel, I…”

What Crowley is missing in this moment is that angels are beings of love. When they do love, they don’t love by halves. They don’t keep one foot out the door. He will burn down every single bookstore and library in London if that makes his demon feel better.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I guess I still want to believe in— something. Anything.” He really does. He wants to be reassured that it’s all part of a plan. He wants to have faith again, not in the other angels, but at least in God Herself. He wants to be told he’s doing the right thing by a higher power. He sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I understand if you want to leave now.”

Aziraphale turns around, fully prepared to hide away upstairs for the rest of the week. Or the month. Or the century. But hoping _so bad_ that the demon will stop him. It’s absurd how much he missed Crowley for the twenty and something hours he was gone— there were moments in history when they didn’t see each other for centuries and were just fine.

“Don’t be an idiot, angel.” Crowley reaches behind him to grab him at the elbow, making him turn around. “I’ve loved you for six thousand years. I’m not going to stop now.”

"You— what?" The enormity of what the demon just said hangs in the air between them. Aziraphale's face goes through confusion, shock, heartbreak and worry in the span of a few seconds. "Crowley… when did you know?"

This is another moment where Crowley should lie. He should say something vague, deflect the question, maybe pretend he's still too angry and storm off again just so he doesn't have to give an answer. He feels the imperative need to walk back on the words that just slipped out of his mouth, feels himself standing on the edge of a precipice and the ground missing under his toes.

For the second time in the span of less than a day, though, Crowley decides to take a step forward and bare himself once again.

"From the start." He stares right into the angel's eyes. "From the garden."

Aziraphale's heart somersaultsin his chest.

 _Fuck_ , he's been such an idiot. An even bigger idiot than he thought.

In a sense, he's always known. Crowley is many things, but he's not subtle. His feelings for Aziraphale were on display for anyone who cared enough to pay attention. And now, as he thinks back at the last six thousand years, the angel reconsiders every interaction, every word, every meeting.

“I’m, I—” Aziraphale stutters as Crowley cups his face in his hands. “Why? Why would you?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t know. This is the one thing I do not question.”

“Dearest, I… I don’t know if this is part of a plan. Of any plan. I don’t know if you really were put here with me because of a reason. But I do know that I’m grateful you're here.” Aziraphale puts his hands over the demon’s. “You didn’t deserve it, what they did to you. You didn’t. And if I have to spend the rest of my existence righting this wrong, I will be happy to do it. Should you let me.”

“Angel.” Crowley closes his eyes and kisses him. “Angel.” Whispers against his lips over and over again. “Angel.”

It wasn’t wrong of Aziraphale to try and give him back some hope. If he could, Crowley would explain that he just won’t allow himself to hope, not after all this time. He would say he will stay angry at God for as long as he lives. He would like to be able to describe how is brain short-circuits when Aziraphale is so close, and how he has no idea what to do about it. He doesn’t know how to be around him, after six thousand years of wanting him, and not be completely head-over-heels obsessed with him.

But only that single word keeps coming out of his lips.

“Angel.”

His angel is so warm and soft in his arms. Is he losing his mind? It feels like he is.

The waves of pure, intense love coming off of Crowley in his direction are so strong Aziraphale is glad he is an angel; otherwise, he's not sure he could take it. There's also something else there. Worry, maybe?

“You're fine.” He runs his thumb over the demon's tattoo, trying to soothe him. “It's just love. This is what it feels like.”

“Hmm.” Crowley hides his face in the crook of the angel's neck. “Don't care much for it.”

Aziraphale chuckles softly. “I'm sorry.”

“You've apologized an awful lot lately, angel.” He nips at the skin of his neck. “You're going to have to make it up to me.”

Aziraphale smirks against the demon's ear, and drops his voice to a whisper. “Oh, I have every intention to.”

At those words, a shiver runs down Crowley's spine and his cock twitches in response.

What a poor excuse for an angel and a demon the two of them are. An angel has no right to be this hot. And how about a demon that loves with the intensity of a supernova?

That night, they’re a mess. A mess of intertwined limbs, urgent moans, nails on skin and lips on lips. At one point, Crowley moves the back of his arm to his forehead to find it drenched in sweat, his hair in disarray. Just as he’s about to miracle himself clean, Aziraphale, panting beneath him, stops him. “Don’t.” He tells him between bated breaths. “You’re so beautiful like this. Absolutely marvelous.”

That’s when Crowley has an epiphany. Throughout history, he has never understood the way humans love. He did not comprehend Achilles’ desperation when he lost Patroclus; he read all of Sappho’s poetry and didn’t think much of it. He saw Shah Jahan building the Taj Mahal to preserve his late wife’s body and was astounded by such a feat. He was in the room as Napoleon died, the name of Josephine on his lips, and still didn’t get it.

He does now. There is no such love in Heaven or in Hell. The love of God is unbending, unforgiving, eternal. The love of humans is a fragile, flickering light that goes in and out. It changes shape and form throughout the years, takes many faces. The love of humans burns as much as it heals, it’s uncomfortable and inconvenient. It’s rare, and delicate, and therefore precious.

* * *

The sun is beginning to dawn, and they’re still in bed. They woke up a little while ago, but the angel’s perfectly innocent good morning kiss was reciprocated with a small (absolutely not innocent) bite on his jaw line.

“I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you yet.” Crowley turns around, facing the wall instead, but glances at Aziraphale over his bare shoulder.

“Ah, I see, is there… anything else I can do for you?”

“Don’t know.” The demon says, tilting his head against the pillow, exposing the side of his neck as much as possible.

Aziraphale recognizes the sign, and slides closer to be able to nibble at the skin he’s being offered. He presses their bodies together firmly while sneaking a hand around Crowley’s waist, grabbing his cock.

“Harder, angel.” The demon asks him, breath catching in his throat. “Bite down, you can’t hurt me.”

Aziraphale tries, but still— he doesn’t want to bruise the beautiful skin under his teeth. Also, no complaints about what his hand is doing, he notes with some pride. Actually, the response he’s getting is quite encouraging.

“Hey, Aziraphale…” Crowley stops, bites down on his lower lip, tries again to speak. “Remember… when you went to— _aah, fuck_ — Edinburgh, sixteen hundred something?”

“Of course I remember.” He tightens his grip on the demon, quickens his pace, runs his thumb over the tip. “I was sore for days after that.”

“Yeah, about that…” He turns around just enough to let Aziraphale see his smile. “You should never let a demon toss a coin.”

This time, Crowley gets exactly the bite he wanted and then some.

**Author's Note:**

> After this, I might write just plain smut. Yes? (She asks, preaching to the choir.)


End file.
